S hopping for groceries in the major chains in Japan gave me the impression that Japan barely grew its own vegetables . Most things at the supermarkets were from somewhere else—the garlic from China or Spain, the kabocha from Mexico or New Zealand. Don't get me wrong, there is plenty of produce from all over Japan at these stores, but it's significantly more expensive than the imported stuff . It is counterintuitive. One step outside the city and you see a sea of small farms growing all types of produce. How is it that something that needs to be shipped across an ocean can get here and still be cheaper than the local stuff? And where does all that local produce even go? What made it stranger was watching the people around us. When friends came to visit, they often brought eggs, cucumbers, corn, or whatever was in season. Coworkers did the same, distributing food to everyone. Knowing what prices are, I always assumed they were using their rent money to pay for all of thi...
The neighborhood was always quiet until the rumbling of the garbage trucks rolled through. If my mother found out I didn't take out the trash—again, there would be hell to pay. So I would run down the stairs to the trash bin, rushing to tie it up, and bolt out the door to the side of the house where the big bins are, and pull them to the street as they arrived with their automated arms. Another disaster averted, and luckily for me I never had to sort the trash. When I was in high school our local waste management company introduced two new bins, a green one for recyclable materials and another for yard trimmings. We were under the impression they were taking steps to go green. But I don't remember any guidance, any rejected bags, or any real enforcement—they'd collect everything regardless. Nothing prepared me for the rude awakening Japanese waste management had waiting for me. I was forced to learn the difference between burnable and non-burnable, the different...